


Below the Sun

by holyfloodlights



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, when im not terrified to post oc fics ill tag this with the proper characters lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfloodlights/pseuds/holyfloodlights
Summary: A series of Alistair/Warden OC drabbles, because self-inserts are how I cope with depression





	1. Chance

Wren needed a miracle to happen.

His mind was racing a million miles an hour, thinking of all the things that could go wrong in the next seventy-two hours.  They would leave at dawn, making their way from Redcliffe Castle to Denerim—hopefully before the darkspawn army and its Archdemon wreaked havoc upon Ferelden’s capital.  There were so many unknowns; what if the city was destroyed before they arrived? What if the Archdemon couldn’t be defeated this time? What if they hadn’t gathered a big enough army to fight them off?  What if they came so close, and Morrigan’s strange ritual didn’t work—or worse, had simply been a lie?  All of it bounced violently against the inner walls of his skull, keeping him awake.

Across the room from him was his greatest friend, Alistair Theirin, quiet as the dead as he slept.  After everything Wren had been through throughout his life, it was a wonder he’d even gathered such a positive acquaintanceship with the man, compared to how close they were now.  The fireplace in their room was dimming, close to burning out totally, but for the moment, the light of the flames still flickered over their beds. 

Maybe… Maybe he just needed a drink.  Wren carefully stood from the bed, wincing as the wooden bed frame creaked just loud enough to hear through the whole room. The second it creaked, Alistair shot up in his own bed, blinking and breathing hard as he stared at Wren.  He was silent, catching his breath after the scare.  The elven rogue looked to the floor, then back at the human with his brow furrowed.  “Sorry,” Wren whispered, starting past him toward the door.

He didn’t expect Alistair to grab his hand before he could clear his bed, but it happened nonetheless.  “Where are you going?” Alistair mumbled, and for some strange reason, Wren’s first instinct _wasn’t_ to pull away from his touch.

“I can’t sleep.”  Reluctantly, Wren let go of Alistair’s hand, locking his own arms behind his back and looking away.  “I didn’t mean to wake you, Alistair, I’m sorry.”

“I was already awake,” the human admitted quietly, rubbing his neck awkwardly as he slung his legs over the edge of the bed.  He opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it again in favor of patting the empty space beside him.  Wren stared at his hand on the mattress for a moment before sitting beside Alistair, burying his hands in his lap.  They both knew they should say something, but what?  And at what cost?

“I’m scared,” Theirin finally whispered, expression stuck in a concerned state.  “Either of us could die tomorrow, Wren.  Maybe both of us, maybe all of us.  I don’t know how to rectify possibilities like that.”

“I’m scared, too.”  Wren took a deep breath, closing his eyes.  “I want everything to be okay.  I’m willing to do what it takes to save Ferelden, and I know you are, too.  But… But that doesn’t change how much I want to throw up.”

Alistair let out a gentle laugh, suddenly leaning over to rest his head against Wren’s shoulder.  “I’m so _very_ glad I’m not the one who admitted to it first.”

It would take a few minutes of internal panic and turmoil, but Wren eventually reached over, taking Alistair’s hand tightly in his own.  “I’m just… glad you haven’t seen me lose my lunch over this.”

“Nothing is more nerve-wracking than trying to sleep before your imminent death.”  Alistair lifted his head, keeping his fingers interlocked between Wren’s, and looked at his fellow Warden, though Wren avoided his gaze as best he could.  Alistair simply watched him, looking over his features with a purpose.  “Wren?”

Wren’s ears twitched at the sound of his own name, but he still didn’t meet the human’s eyes.  “Hm?”

“May I…”  Alistair shook his head, looking to his lap.  “Never mind.”

Finally, Wren looked at his friend.  “No, what… what is it?”

Alistair blinked several times, as though trying to generate pure courage to speak.  He sighed, rubbing his neck again, that chain around his neck jingling softly.  “I… If we make it out alive, Wren Fowler, I don’t want you to… go.”  He swallowed hard.  “I want you to stay with me.”

In the dim light, Wren was grateful Alistair couldn’t see the soft blush forming to the tips of his pointed ears.  “What for?”

“For… For…”  Despite the dimness, though, Wren could tell just from the way Alistair stuttered that he was red as an apple.  “I don’t know, for an indeterminate amount of fondness I’ve gathered for you?  Yes, that.  Unless that… sounds unsettling, then, not that.”

Wren’s grip loosened on Alistair’s hand, only in favor of stroking his knuckles with his thumb.  He’d gathered an indeterminate amount of fondness for this sweet warrior as well, and, despite every experience’s voice in his head telling him to abort, he wanted a second chance.  “Not unsettling. Definitely… mutual.”

Alistair took a moment to register that into his brain, then the nervous smile on his face relaxed into a big, gentle, goofy one—one of Wren’s favorites.  “Mutual…  Mutual?  Andraste’s knickers, I… I wasn’t expecting that.”  Before Wren could respond, Alistair lifted their held hands, pecking one of Wren’s knuckles while he looked into Wren’s eyes.  “In the best of ways.”

Wren found himself smiling like a little girl gifted her first doll, trying to cover his own mouth as he avoided Alistair’s gaze.  “I… You’re…”  Wren couldn’t get a word out, humming pleasantly at first.  But then the hum turned to a soft, somber noise.

Alistair covered their conjoined hands with a second.  “I know.  I _am_ sorry to ask it of you only now.  I should have... said it sooner.”  He paused.  “I want to survive.  That’s obvious.  But it’s more than that.  I want to survive with you.  And if we can achieve that, I don’t care what comes after.  If I’ve learned anything over the past year with you, it’s that the possibilities are endless, even if their likelihood… isn’t.”

* * *

 

A grueling battle, more akin to the winning of a great war, would finally put an end to the Fifth Blight.  Casualties, while expected, were numerous and bloody, but upon the vanquishing of the Archdemon in Denerim, many things would come to light—including the seemingly impossible survival of Warden Wren Fowler, the deliverer of the killing blow to the Archdemon, and the equally astounding survival of his companions.

While no concrete answers were provided as to how the Archdemon was slain without the ultimate sacrifice of a Grey Warden’s life, the remaining fighters of the march on Denerim would assist in picking up the pieces of the battered but still beating heart of Ferelden.  Surviving citizens would be found and healed, and refugees would return to their homes upon the confirmation of the end of the Blight, providing further assistance in repairing the physical and the emotional damage brought upon Ferelden.

But now, Wren Fowler enjoyed the moments of twilight upon the balcony outside his chambers in the royal palace.  Slowly and carefully, he wrapped his upper right arm with a clean bandage, taking care to adjust the cloth so it lay flat against the thick slash there.  The surviving servants of the palace had been beyond helpful to him, providing him with clothes that would fit him and simultaneously keep out of the way of his healing; a sleeveless, black tunic, seemingly elven from its gold embroidery, hung from his shoulders comfortably, while the smallest pair of brown breeches they had available had to be belted around his waist to keep them from falling off his hips.  

His entire body was sore, bruised, cut-up, or otherwise injured somehow, and he had been repeatedly told to get as much rest as he could… but for now, he would relish in the first moment of peace he took for himself in years.  As the first ray of scarlet sunlight gleamed out from behind the forests far beyond, the edges of the horizon were painted a deep red.  Wren smiled, resting his elbows atop the stone of the balcony.  He had never seen such a view in his life.

“Oh, you’re up.”  Wren nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping his head around to find a familiar face, similarly bandaged and leaned against the stone doorway.  Normally clad in his wrought steel armor, Alistair instead donned a simple, white linen shirt and black trousers, barefoot except for a tight bandage around his right ankle, which he seemed to be avoiding putting weight on as much as possible.  He had a small, scabbed slash along his cheekbone, and both his forearms were covered in injuries of all sorts.  Despite all this, he had a warm smile on his face.  “Awfully early.  For once, you could’ve slept in.”

Wren returned the smile, albeit nervously, pressing his hand to his own chest as though to calm his heart.  Had the warrior simply walked into his room?  Maybe Wren didn’t hear him knock.  “I… heard from one of the servants that—that the sunrise, ah…”

Alistair glanced past him out into the distance, limping forward and taking his place beside Wren against the balcony.  The rising sun’s light made the man’s hazel eyes shine brilliantly, a pleasant sight difficult for Wren to look away from.  “You have a view that rivals that of the King.”  Alistair eyes met his, and Wren looked back at the sunrise, trying to pretend he hadn’t just been caught staring despite the flush coming to his face.  “Really something,” Alistair commented quietly, before looking back to the sun.  Was he still speaking of the view?

The sun had gained speed over the horizon, half of the large star now glowing an intense orange while the clouds surrounding it brought gentle pinks and purples to the sky’s hue.  The moon was barely visible now behind them, a wispy white crescent against a dim blue sky.  The silence between them wasn’t awkward, tense, uncomfortable, or punctuated by any sort of strong emotion—it was peaceful, a mutual appreciation of the natural beauty that took place before their very eyes.

“May I ask something of you?”  Alistair’s voice was hushed beside Wren, making both his pointed ears twitch.  Wren nodded without hesitation, surprising even himself with his loyalty to his fellow Warden.  “You don’t sleep much, which I hope will change.”  Alistair turned to face Wren, leaning in close, as though to remind him of his undivided attention, of the fact that they were alone together.  “But when you are up at such ungodly hours, and you find yourself watching the sunrise… Wake me, so I can join you.”

Wren met his eyes, his normally dark irises shining almost golden from the light of the sun.  “You say that like… like we’ll be travelling Thedas together.”

“You’re not planning on abandoning me now, are you?”  Alistair’s smile was wide.  “Besides, our job isn’t over yet.”

The elven rogue took a breath, letting the corners of his lips rise.  “I’ll wake you.”

“Swear?”  Alistair slid his hand underneath Wren’s that lay flat against the stone railing.

Wren clasped that hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss just once.  “Swear.”


	2. Wish You Were Here

“Bloody landgrabbers,” Alistair Theirin muttered to himself as he made his way up the steps to his chambers, escaping another unproductive meeting with Denerim’s nobles—“Ferelden’s finest,” his squire had called them, but Alistair had a few less polite names for them all.  It seemed with every year that passed, more and more greedy noblemen came out of the woodwork to claim a right to some miniscule portion of land, fighting over Ferelden’s geography like a horde of children crying over the last bit of candy.

Once he reached the door to his chambers, he sighed in relief, grabbing the handle and lugging the heavy door open, closing it behind him and leaning his back against it for a moment of rest.

It had been three years since the Fifth Blight was defeated, three years since he’d become the sole ruler of Ferelden.  King Alistair—though he despised the title so very much—had gone from a life of fighting darkspawn and travelling across Thedas to ruling over an entire nation.  While he’d gotten used to the lifestyle, he had slowly been going stir-crazy since the moment the crown was placed upon his head, and the heavily-guarded, slow-moving visits to the towns and teyrns of Ferelden did nothing to shake it.  He wasn’t one to make impulsive decisions, to risk his own life unless deemed necessary, but he was desperately missing his life as a Grey Warden warrior.

After a good deal of deep breathing to calm himself down, he opened his eyes, glancing over his royal chambers with an expression less than impressed.  It was regal, beautifully-designed, truly a chamber meant for a King, but the shininess had faded mere days after he moved in.  He started toward the mahogany dresser beside his bed, intending to change for supper, but he stopped as his eye caught something peculiar.  The sheets on the bed had been tousled about, like he had just woken from slumber.  The problem was, of course, that he’d made his bed that very morning and hadn’t come back to his chambers once that day until now.

A pang of paranoia hit him, and he dropped to the floor, searching underneath the bed. To his surprise, he found a small leather backpack.  As he picked it up and brought himself back to his feet, he heard something out on the balcony—short, barely audible, but a sound like leather soles scraping against stone.  He dropped the back and snatched a shortsword from its spot on the fireplace mantle, bounding his way out onto the balcony, and pointed it at the discovered figure, who leaned their back flat against the balustrade with their hands up in surrender.

“What are you—” Alistair started, but once his glare met the wide eyes of the figure before him, his entire demeanor changed.  Standing in front of him was a tan-skinned, freckled elf, donning a black cloak and leather armor, with dark, curly hair that reached past his shoulders—longer than Alistair remembered.  “Maker.”

Warden-Commander Wren Fowler swallowed the lump in his throat, lowering his hands to the sword that was pointed at his chest and pushing the weapon gently away.  “I… I was going to surprise you, but I—I got nervous, and then you didn’t come back anyway, and then I heard you ranting in the staircase and I figured you didn’t want any visitors so I…”  He took a deep breath, swallowing again.  “Hello, your majesty.”

Alistair lowered the sword immediately upon the word _majesty_ , tossing it through the doorway and covering his eyes with a hand.  Despite the sudden scare of a possible threat in his very chambers, Alistair had a wide smile on his face, growing wider with each passing second.  “You snuck into my—did you scale the bloody _tower_?”

Some of the tenseness seemed to fall from Wren’s shoulders, and he returned the smile with a nervous twitch of the corners of his lips.  “Your royal guardsmen are, ah… not very good at what they do, that being… keeping other people away from you.” 

“You, however, are very good at what you do.”  Alistair chuckled, reaching out to take Wren’s gloved hand in his own and kissing one of his leather-covered knuckles.  The remaining tension in Wren’s body melted away, and he smiled, the pointed tips of his ears tinging red.  “Did you take a nap in my bed?”

Wren’s smile fell, eyes widening in embarrassment.  Did he forget to make the bed before he came back?  Wren looked down in an attempt to hide how terribly he was blushing.  “I—It was like that when I—Well, no, it wasn’t, I just—I wanted to see how—”

Alistair laughed again, tugging on his clasped hand to get him to follow him.  “The fanciness of it wears off when you sleep in it every night.  Get in here before someone sees you.”  Wren simply stumbled after him into his royal chambers, Alistair pulling the curtain closed in front of the doorway to the balcony.  He stopped to look at Wren, appearing to be examining every inch of his face.  Wren looked like he’d been sleeping, the old dark circles around his eyes now brightened up significantly.  His lips, usually chewed to all hell, were healed.  He even had more freckles sprayed across his nose and cheeks. Reaching up to touch a new, small scar along Wren’s chin, his fingers trailed over his cheek until he cupped his jaw.  “You—you look—your hair is longer.”

Feeling Alistair’s bare fingers against his skin, Wren almost couldn’t keep his eyes from drooping shut at the sensation.  He missed Alistair terribly.  “I… Yes, I decided to grow it out.”

“It, uh…”  Alistair brought his other hand up to gently tug a lock of his curly hair, pulling it just tight enough to examine its full length.  If Wren’s hair were straight, it would’ve reached the middle of his ribs.  He chuckled a little at the thought, letting go of his hair in favor of resting his hands on Wren’s forearms.  “It suits you.”

“Thank you.”  Once Alistair seemed finished with his examination, Wren took his turn, hesitantly pressing the tips of his fingers to the faint, white scar on Alistair’s cheekbone.  He remembered that scar; he’d been slashed by a darkspawn dagger during the final march on Denerim.  His strawberry blond hair was a bit longer and curlier on top now compared to the spiky, short way Alistair used to style it.  It was a nice change, especially as he was dressed to the nines in a noble red coat with gold embroidery.  He looked just a few shades paler, and his muscles felt softer, but Wren knew a nation’s King wouldn’t have time to spend out in the sun, training and keeping up his physique.  And Alistair was cleaner, shaven and all—though he wouldn’t mention it, of course.

His hazel eyes looked exhausted, and he was beginning to grow crows’ feet around his eyes.  But it was still Alistair, all right, and Wren smiled warmly, letting his hands rest flat against Alistair’s chest—before realizing he hadn’t said a single word in almost two minutes.  He blinked, taking a breath.  “You look… royal.”

Alistair chuckled, reaching up to run his fingers through his own hair.  “Is—is that good or bad?”

Wren traced a finger over a few loops of gold thread embroidered on Alistair’s coat, admiring his shaven jaw with just a twang of bittersweetness; he always liked his stubble, but he looked handsome without it, too.  “Good.  You look… You look good.”

“Good,” Alistair repeated quietly.  After a good few moments of each man smiling warmly at the other, Alistair cleared his throat, breaking eye contact to look around the room.  “You already started to make yourself comfortable, which is—that’s good.  I wouldn’t have you stay anywhere else.  How, ah—how long are you in Denerim?”

Wren let his hands fall to his sides as he spoke.  “I’ve—I’ve got about two weeks to spare before they want me to start making my way back to Amaranthine.”

Alistair’s eyes widened.  “Two… _weeks_?”

Wren looked up at Alistair, swallowing.  “Too much?”

“No! No,” Alistair insisted, a nervous smile coming to his lips.  “I just—I wasn’t expecting such a long stay from the… Warden-Commander.”  Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t just that.  A million things bounced around Alistair’s head.  Was he supposed to let the guardsmen know about his guest?  Would his counsel approve of Wren’s stay?  Was there paperwork to do?  What if he just kept him a secret?  But he shook it all from his head.  “No, Wren, I am lucky I get so much time with you here.  Do you have… things with you?”

“I’ve a contact in the city holding onto the important things.”  Wren furrowed his brow.  “This wasn’t the sort of thing I _should’ve_ surprised you with, was it?  I should have… I should have sent a letter, I’m sorry.”

Alistair sighed, taking Wren’s face in his hands and giving him a soft smile.  “Wren Fowler, I am so very happy you are here.  We’ll figure out the logistics as we go along, but right now, I’m—I’m just glad to be able to see your face.”

* * *

 

The first night was awkward, but only at first.  Alistair returned from supper with all sorts of political figures in Denerim after what felt like hours; he couldn’t remember a single conversation he had during that long, deathly boring dinner, but he did remember thinking every few minutes, _I hope Wren hasn’t gotten discovered_. 

Unfortunately, the anxiety behind that question wasn’t quelled the moment he walked back into his quarters, as Wren was nowhere in sight.  Alistair chewed at his bottom lip, closing the door behind himself and standing quietly to listen for something, anything nearby.  Sure enough, Alistair heard a noise come from behind the balcony curtain— _shink_ , like a steel sword sliding against a sheet of metal.  Sliding past the curtain, he glanced over the area of the balcony, eyes finally landing on the southernmost side of the balustrade. 

In the slowly dimming light of the setting sun, Wren sat on the corner of the stone banister, whetting one of his daggers while his long legs dangled down from the edge.  He was still in his armor, but instead of wearing his cloak over his shoulders, it was messily tied around his waist.  He looked awfully bored, but… content, like he was comfortable here.

Alistair cleared his throat to make himself known, and Wren nearly dropped the whetstone in his lap, eyes staring wide at the former Warden in surprise.  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Wren caught his breath, looking down at the items in his hands.  “It’s okay… How was dinner?”

Alistair took a seat beside him on the stone railing, the toes of his boots just barely touching the stone floor.  “Infuriating.  Far too many lords complaining of the Warden presence in Amaranthine.  Far too many ladies complaining of your friend, the new Bann.”

Wren raised an eyebrow.  “I’m sure Shianni knows that already.”

“She does, but she has the thickest skin I’ve ever seen.  I didn’t think anyone could have that sort of patience until I saw her smile and wave at Lady Kelsand when she called her a… a, uh, knife-ear.”

Wren couldn’t help but chuckle, covering his mouth.  “Her temper’s settled down, then.  I was hoping she’d be a good fit.”  Wren sheathed his dagger and set the whetstone aside to bury his hands in his lap, a small smile lingering on his lips.  “You look tired.”

“Just a bit.  Long day.”  Alistair’s eyes went back and forth between Wren’s face and hands for a moment before he leaned into him, touching their shoulders together.  “On the contrary, _you_ look bored.”

Wren glanced up at him for a split second before returning his gaze to the ground, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.  Alistair didn’t remember him smiling this much; it was a nice change.  “Just… Just a bit.”

“Do you know what I do during my slow days?”  Wren tilted his head at him, and Alistair grinned.  “Neither do I; I don’t _have_ slow days.”

Wren rolled his eyes, bumping him with his shoulder.  “I bet you haven’t told anyone I’m here, have you?” he asked playfully, but when he was met with silence, he tilted his head.  “Alistair?”

“No,” Alistair admitted sheepishly, quickly adding, “but I can’t let the guardsmen know someone snuck in.  They’ll tighten security and smother me even more.”

Wren let his head drop with a sigh.  “Alistair, I’m good at sneaking around, but I’m going to be here for two weeks.  I can’t—I’m going to go stir-crazy if I’m holed up in here for two whole weeks.”

Alistair frowned guiltily, rubbing his own neck.  “Fine, okay—I’ll tell the guard-captain tomorrow morning.”

Wren dropped down from the railing onto the balcony, grabbing his whetstone off the edge and slipping it into one of his pockets.  “It’s… not a big deal.  If you want to keep it a secret, you can.”  The smile was gone, and he was avoiding Alistair’s eyes again.  Alistair realized quickly that the man thought Alistair was worried of other things.  Secret meetings with an elven Warden in his chambers?  It was a rumor that could get out of hand, sure, but Alistair didn’t care much for nobility and their obsession with image.

The second he realized this, he stood with him.  “You’re—Wren, I hope you don’t think I didn’t announce your arrival because of—”

“I don’t blame you.”  Wren barely glanced at him over his shoulder.  “I know you have a… reputation to keep.”

“When have I ever cared about my reputation?” Alistair asked, stepping in front of him to attempt to persuade him to look.  “I didn’t want to be King for a lot of reasons, Wren, but that was one of them.  If you had shown up at the castle gate and introduced yourself as my—my _lover_ —” Alistair flushed a bit as he stuttered over the word, but he continued, “—the only idiots who would have a problem with it would be the court.”

Wren didn’t meet his eyes, but he furrowed his brow, his cheeks becoming the slightest bit pink at the same word.  “Is that… what we are?”

Alistair swallowed down the lump in his throat.  He was really hoping that question wouldn’t come up, but he knew it would at some point.  “Is—is that what you—what you _want_ to be?” 

Wren opened his mouth to respond, but closed it when he realized he didn’t have an answer.  Gods, why did he have to say the word _lover_?  They hadn’t slept together, hadn’t kissed, hadn’t really done much more than talk, and even on that front, the communication was only vaguely romantic in nature.  There was such an air of uncertainty on both ends—Wren was scared to reach a point of vulnerability with Alistair, while Alistair struggled with not only the idea of romantic involvement with a man but also the act of balancing his royal duties with his personal life.  Even before Alistair was made King, when they knew each other as fellow Grey Wardens trying to save Ferelden from the darkspawn threat, their closeness was limited to mere moments of intimacy: things like checking each other for wounds after battles, exchanging little childhood stories on the road, or sitting just a bit too close during their night watches while the others slept in their tents.

Each one was almost completely sure of the other’s feelings for the other—almost.  It wasn’t that either gave signs of wanting to simply be friends that pushed the uncertainty, though.  It was their own insecurities getting in the way.

“Is that…”  Wren finally looked up at him, the anxiety evident in his face.  “Is that, uh, what _you_ want?”

Alistair gave a breathy laugh, though he didn’t find the situation funny in the slightest.  It was like laughing at a wake, surrounded by so much tension that he had to diffuse it somehow.  “Maker—one of us has to give a real answer at some point.”

Wren gave an awkward half-inch of a smile, looking down at the cloak’s knot around his waist as he nervously toyed with it.  “I didn’t… I don’t… It’s been three years and I just…”  Every sentence he tried to speak trailed off, and eventually he just shook his head.  He knew what he wanted, but there was so much fear in asking for it.

Alistair took a deep breath, hesitating—or maybe he was trying to think?  He wasn’t even sure himself.  Then his hands settled on Wren’s upper arms, and he stepped a bit closer.  They weren’t remarkably different in height, but it was much more obvious how much taller Alistair as Alistair’s chin was mere inches away from the tip of Wren’s nose.  “I—I’ll start, alright?  Don’t let anything I say make you feel like you’ve got to reciprocate.”  Alistair’s thumbs stroked the sharp curve of his shoulders as he thought his words out carefully.  “I… enjoy you.  I enjoy… being with you.  We’ve spent a great deal of time together through some of the worst and best situations of our lives, and I find… I… care for you deeply.”

For the first time, Wren found himself unable to look away from Alistair’s eyes, wide-eyed and turning red to the tips of his ears.  It was one thing to be hugged, held, or even just touched in a meaningful way by the former Warden.  But hearing him admit such feelings, out loud, to his face?  It was surreal, something he’d never expected to happen.  “You…”  He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly.  “You do?”  Alistair simply nodded, the corners of his lips wanting to twitch into a smile but not sure if it was appropriate.  There was still that microscopic chance that Wren wouldn’t feel the same way, and he hadn’t said anything to confirm or deny his own feelings yet.  A moment of deliberation, Alistair watching Wren’s eyes as they looked over his face…

“I—I feel safe with you.”  The words seemed to burst from Wren’s mouth, like he’d been holding them in.  “When I’m on my own, I—I can’t go anywhere without knowing how to escape, because something will always go wrong.”  He spoke so quickly, Alistair had to read his lips to understand him.  “But when I’m around you—I haven’t felt like this once in my life.  For the first time, I’m just… I’m okay, and it’s because you make me feel better.  I don’t like being around… people.  That’s—that’s obvious.  But I—I want to be—” He finally paused to take a breath, mustering up the courage to continue.  “I want to be… with you.”

Alistair’s eyes were wide as he tried to get a grip on everything Wren said.  The Warden-Commander wasn’t known for talking about anything that he felt.  But that he willingly spoke of his feelings… It said more than enough.

“May I kiss you?”  To his surprise, Alistair gently pulled him close enough that their foreheads touched.  Wren flinched on instinct, but he found himself sliding his arms around Alistair’s waist, allowing himself to be enveloped in Alistair’s arms.  As soon as the Warden-Commander nodded, Alistair closed the distance between their lips.

Over three years before, after months of gathering allies for the battle against the darkspawn threat, Wren had sat beside Alistair during the night watch, quietly listening to his stories of growing up in Redcliffe.  Wren usually paid attention, enjoying the way he talked of his childhood shenanigans.  However, at that moment, all he could pay attention to was the way Alistair’s warm thigh pressed against his own, and all he could think of was how it would feel if the warrior cradled him in his arms and even kissed him.  Would he hold him gently around his waist while he gave gentle pecks to his lips, afraid to break him like a porcelain doll?  Or would his grip on Wren’s waist be strong as he pulled him into a passionate kiss?

Now, as Alistair would kiss him on his royal balcony, his large hands ran up his arms, over his shoulders, until his fingers slid up into his thick, curly hair, thumbs rubbing against Wren’s cheekbones.  Pressed so closely together, Wren could easily feel Alistair’s body shaking against his own, his fingers quivering in his hair.  Was he nervous, too?  The thought was almost comical—the King of Ferelden and former Grey Warden, Alistair Theirin, was nervous about kissing _him_.  But Wren passed no judgement whatsoever.  In fact, he tried not to think at all.  He simply let his head be held in Alistair’s strong hands as they kissed.

Once their lips finally parted, Alistair kept his fingers threaded through Wren’s hair, wanting him to stay as close as he could get him.  Wren didn’t want him any further away, but when Alistair moved his fingers ever-so-slightly, Wren winced, trying to keep his head completely still.  Alistair raised an eyebrow, and Wren clenched his eyes shut, giving a pained look.  “Tangled—your fingers, in my hair, they’re—”

Alistair’s eyes widened, and a few minutes of apologizing and awkward, painful maneuvering later, his fingers were finally released from Wren’s hair.  “Maker, I’m so sorry,” Alistair sighed again, leaning against the doorway behind him and covering his eyes in shame.

Wren laughed a little, ignoring his sore scalp in favor of grabbing Alistair’s hand from his eyes and covering it with both his hands.  Despite the painful experience, he wasn’t upset in the slightest.  How could he have been?  He was over the moon, still had a pink glow to his cheeks.  “It’s okay.  You didn’t rip… _that_ much hair out.”

Alistair let his head fall back against the doorframe, giving a sheepish smile.  “I am awfully good at ruining the…” His eyes looked past Wren, realizing the sun had almost completely disappeared behind the horizon.  “We… It’s getting awfully late.  We should… go inside.”

Getting ready for bed was a quiet affair.  The pair split off for a few moments, Wren unbuckling himself out of his armor and Alistair rummaging through his dresser.  As Alistair began to undress, Wren couldn’t help but to watch from the corner of his eye, distracted from the smallest inch of bare stomach that was revealed from Alistair lifting his leather waistcoat over his head.  Alistair caught his eye, and Wren looked down to unbuckle his boots, pretending like he hadn’t been staring.

Once he’d removed his leather armor, left in a black tunic and grey trousers, Wren set his pack beside Alistair’s king-sized bed, and Alistair stopped before he could remove his belt, watching him.  Then it dawned on him, his cheeks reddening—they would be sleeping in the same bed.  Wren sat down on his own side, bending over to look through the pack once more, seemingly unbothered by the idea of sharing a bed with Alistair.  _Just because you care for him, he feels the same way, and you’re both sleeping in the same bed, doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to want to…_ The king took a quiet breath, removing his belt.  The thought did nothing to quell his anxiety.  He had no experience—not just no experience with men but _no experience whatsoever_.

Finally, after removing his trousers and tying his hair up, Wren had slid underneath the sheets, and Alistair sat down in bed beside him, blowing out the candle on the nightstand.  Neither said anything for ten minutes, twenty, forty, an hour… until Wren shifted, resting his head against Alistair’s shoulder.  It wasn’t exactly his fault; three years away from a man he’d grown used to idle touches from, only to meet him again and get kissed like that?  He hadn’t realized how touch-starved he’d become, how much he craved a simple hug.

Alistair tried to keep himself relaxed as he slid his arm underneath Wren and wrapped it around his waist, but it was difficult, especially the way Wren rolled closer to him, resting his hand atop his bare chest.  A quiet sigh came from Wren’s lips, his breath warm against Alistair’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Alistair asked, turning his head in his direction.

A moment, then Wren mumbled, “Are you going to sleep?”

Alistair cleared his throat.  “Are you?”

Wren pressed his face into Alistair’s shoulder, but the king could feel him blush against his skin.  “Do you… want me to?”

Now it was Alistair’s turn to blush.  “Why do you answer my questions with more questions?”  Instead of answering, Wren was quiet for a good minute.  Then he sat up, slinging his leg over Alistair and straddling his waist.  Alistair swallowed hard, thankful for the darkness in the room that concealed how red his face was.  “I—I suppose that’s better than… another question.”

Wren reached out, trying to feel for Alistair’s face; his hand felt something softer, and he realized he had set it on Alistair’s pec.  In the moment it took for him to decide which way to move his hand, Alistair’s hand rested atop his, interlocking their fingers.  “Do you want me to sleep?” Wren murmured.

Alistair sat up, hesitating as Wren’s hand started to move down his stomach, his own hand following each inch.  Finally, he took Wren’s hand again, holding it still just before it reached his belly button.  “Wren, I… I’ve never... I don’t have…”  He sighed, squeezing his hand.  “I don’t have much experience.  And if we do this, it’s got to be… I want it to be perfect.  Not ‘fumbling around awkwardly in the dark,’ but perfect.”

Surprised yet again, though perhaps Wren shouldn’t have been.  Alistair stumbled around the topic of sex every night when Zevran told his stories, back before the Battle of Denerim.  He was gentle and kind to Wren, but he had exactly as hard of a time confessing his feelings as Wren did.  It made sense that Alistair wasn’t experienced.  _Must be nice_ , a small voice in the back of Wren’s head bitterly said, but he pushed that thought away.  Instead he realized, _Alistair doesn’t expect me to have sex with him_.  And, while he knew the warrior wouldn’t mistreat him in any way, the idea that Wren could actually say no was… Well, it felt ludicrous, but it was relieving, too.

“We can wait.  It’s been a long day, anyhow.  We both need rest.”  Wren pressed his forehead to Alistair’s, wrapping his arms around his neck.  “But… Can I ask you something?”

Alistair closed his eyes as he listened to Wren speak, finding the sound of his voice both nerve-wracking and soothing, if that was even possible.  “Of course.”

"Can you kiss me again?"


End file.
